


Home is where the kitchen is

by WafflesnRizzles



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emma is enamored, F/F, Regina is cooking, Swan-Mills Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WafflesnRizzles/pseuds/WafflesnRizzles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You’ve imagined a million little ways you can tell Regina how you feel about her. Most of them take place right here, in the kitchen." A SQ oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is where the kitchen is

Regina is moving around the kitchen like she’s done this all her life (and, really, it’s like she has, because she’s been doing this in Storybrooke for thirty years now) and you can’t help but watch, mesmerized.

There’s something about the way that she moves with such purpose underscored with breathtaking ease. She moves like she’s comfortable—like she doesn’t have to worry about anyone wondering if she shouldn’t or telling her that she can’t.

She moves like she’s safe.

The thought makes you sad, because the woman moving in front of you has experienced so much hurt and pain for one, albeit rather lengthy, lifetime. It’s difficult to dwell on the bad things right now, though, because you’ve never seen the usually curt, clipped mayor hum quietly to herself and it’s really distracting.

You can’t tell what she’s humming, but the sound is rumbling low and melodious in her throat, bringing goosebumps to your arms and making your heart contract pleasurably. Occasionally a few words will slip out between the rolling notes.

“Without you,” slips out as she moves to expertly cube the sweet potatoes with her large kitchen knife. She holds the vegetable with one hand and rolls the knife with the other, slicing through the hard flesh with practiced ease and the dull clump! of metal against plastic. She moves from her current task to the stove, where she takes the lid off the pot to stir the white rice inside.

You had once asked why Regina—health-conscious as she is—didn’t insist they eat brown rice. Regina had just smiled sadly and said that ‘old habits die hard,’ before turning back to eat her arroz con pollo in silence. She only answered all of your and Henry’s inquiries with monosyllabic or terse responses. So now every time you see rice, you immediately think of Regina and the sad mystery surrounding white rice. Which, you suppose, has been happening more and more frequently with a whole host of seemingly mundane things.

You think of Regina every time you see onions. Regina is the most impressive onion-chopper you had ever seen. Every time you watch Regina chop an onion, you know you probably look like a wide-eyed five year old—but you can’t really bring yourself to care. Regina chopping onions is fucking magical. The way her hand curves delicately over the bulb. The way she expertly chops off one end, divests the onion of its brown, crinkly outer shell and quickly gets to work sinking the knife into it just so, so that soon the onion is crisscrossed by dozens of thin lines that magically fall into perfect little white cubes.

Or the way she slices the onions lengthwise, creating impeccable, thin strips that she overcooks to perfection and places atop her surprisingly mouthwatering turkey burgers. You can practically hear her voice in your head saying, “You needn’t clog your arteries every time you eat a burger, Miss Swan.”

It makes you smile.

You think of Regina every time you see aprons—mostly because you think it’s so damned cute that the woman insists upon wearing one every time she sets to work in the kitchen. It’s so fifties housewife of her, and it makes you smile all the more because the woman wearing an apron is the strongest and most powerful person in the entire town. But she bakes cookies and makes school lunches for your (collective) son and it’s just…so endearingly domestic.

“God only knows…” slips out of Regina’s mouth as she begins on two tomatoes she has just had you collect from her garden. You love collecting things from her garden now that she’s finally entrusted you to do it. You had to endure about twenty minutes of lecturing on the proper technique and the often underscored: you have to take it from the bud of the stem. But it was worth it, because the garden is quiet and pleasant when you and Henry are gathering the various ingredients for the night’s meal, and it’s a tradition that makes you feel part of the whole thing.

Regina never lets you help with the actual preparation of the meal—it’s her sacred space. Plus, she always argues, you’re far too klutzy to be entrusted with a knife. She isn’t too far from the truth, honestly, but it kind of ruffles your feathers anyway. You like it, though, because when she says it her eyes glitter in amusement and her pursed lips quirk up just a little bit, and you can’t help but wonder that if she’s so beautiful fighting back a smile, how beautiful must she look when she’s really smiling?

As she starts in on the chilies, you blush, remembering that time you made an insensitive joke alluding to…well, masturbation.

_“I hope you’re not sexually frustrated right now, Regina,” you say, your eyebrows raised in boyish amusement. You know you probably look ridiculous, but that’s half the fun anyway._

_“Really, Miss Swan?” She asks dryly, her fingers poised above the thin yellow and red chilies._

_You raise your fingers and waggle them suggestively, “Does terrible things to the lady parts, if you know what I mean.” You glance meaningfully between the chilies and your still-waggling fingers, and most of you wants to just disappear, but the little shit in you finds the look of indignant shock on Regina’s face oh-so-worth it._

_“Who says I need to use my fingers?” Regina quips back after a moment’s pause. She turns to begin chopping up the chilies, and you’re shocked into well-deserved silence._

You ponder that rhetorical question embarrassingly often. Had she been implying she uses a vibrator? Had she been implying that she had a person to do that for her? Had she been implying that she doesn’t have much of a sex drive at all? Had she been implying that she used magic for certain things?

The possibilities abounded, leaving you rather frustrated and all sorts of wet.

A loud hiss erupts as Regina throws the chilies, onions and garlic into a pan. She lowers the heat and lets the ingredients cook until the onions are semi-transparent. She then adds the sweet potatoes, tomatoes, a few spices and a can of creamy white coconut milk. Your stomach rumbles in gustatory anticipation.

Gods this woman was an amazing cook.

You feel so lucky that your presence is now expected at the 108 Mifflin dinner table with this woman and your son. It started as a once a week thing, but soon all three of them were coming up with excuses and invitations that extended well beyond their usual Friday night ritual. Occasionally Mary Margaret and David would convince you all to have a ‘family night,’ which generally had Regina glowering and snarking and Snow chirping more brightly than usual.

The food was worse, too. Mary Margaret made things like tuna casserole and crock pot tacos, which weren’t bad per se, but they lacked the spice and vivacity Regina always brought to everything.

You really love that about her. The way she makes you feel so alive and so content at the same time, like she’s home but she’s also adventure. It pulls all of you in: the parts of you that desperately crave stability and structure but also the parts of you that want to run away from responsibility and expectations.

She moves to stir the large, simmering pot, tasting the concoction with the wooden spoon she uses to stir it and _tsking_ softly to herself. She adds some salt, stirs again, and then puts some on the large spoon and walks it over to you.

This is your favorite part.

She leans close to you, cupping her hand under your chin and feeding you the curry. Her eyes are expectant, and when you hum (or is it a moan?) in contentment, the brown orbs turn light with pleasure and warmth. It makes you want to kiss her, the way she feels so happy that she’s made something you deem good. To be honest, you’re pretty easy to please when it comes to food. You’ll eat grilled cheeses and Ramen until they kill you. But you know that every time you choose her dinners over that of Snow’s or Granny’s that she feels undeniably proud.

And you also know that she now considers it her mission to ‘get you eating healthy,’ because the town needs its Sheriff and Henry needs his other mother.

She never tells you that she also does it because she wants to keep you around for herself, but you know that’s a reason she packs your lunches most days, too.

You haven’t kissed her yet and you haven’t slept over the mansion more than a handful of times. You held her hand under the table once (and gods, you will never forget the way her eyes melted at you in gratitude when you casually grabbed it), but that was mostly because Henry was being a hormonal little shit and you knew Regina’s sensitive little heart was close to breaking.

(You gave Henry a stern talking-to after dinner, and he looked more than adequately sorry. He sometimes forgets how awful he had been to her just a few years back, and how much he is the entire world to his brunette mother.)

You’ve imagined a million little ways you can tell Regina how you feel about her. Most of them take place right here, in the kitchen. You’ll be sitting at the island, sipping your wine (something red and dry and refined). She’ll be moving around the kitchen, humming and occasionally smiling at you. She’ll have put on some record—Miles Davis or the Beach Boys or something old—and she’ll be slightly swaying to the beat as she chops and glides around. You’ll take a large gulp of the expensive wine for courage, and you’ll put your hand delicately on her waist as you approach her from behind.

She’ll stiffen and stop what she’s doing, but eventually when you don’t say anything she’ll just continue chopping. You’ll be nervous—your heart will be in your throat so much you want to throw up—but you’ll also be so close to her that you just want to fall farther into her.

You’ll bend down and place a small, soft kiss on the side of her neck. She’ll let out a puff of breath, but you’ll only pause for a moment before kissing more and more skin. She’ll drop the knife with a loud clatter, and you both will jump. She’ll spin around in your arms, her deep, deep coffee eyes searching yours for some sort of affirmation that they were going to take this monumental step.

She won’t know that you took this step long ago. That every second that passes of every day you love her more. That just the thought of her makes you smile, and the idea of her makes you breathless.

You’ll bump her lightly on the nose with your own, telling her that it’s okay, and you’ll look into her eyes once more before you kiss her unbelievably kissable red lips.

And you’ll fit together, Savior and Evil Queen. Mother and mother. Emma and Regina. She’ll not want to get her cooking hands on you, but you’ll guide her hands to your waist anyhow, desperate to have her finally touch you. You like the smell of onions and garlic, anyway, because they remind you so strongly of her.

She’s been saving you since you got to Storybrooke and you’ve been saving her…but now it’s time for you two to make something new and beautiful.

“God only knows what I’ll be without you,” the words trip out of her mouth around a smile. You jolt back from your reverie and sigh morosely into your wine glass. Henry looks at you like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking, and gives you an encouraging nod and raised eyebrow as if to say, “Do it already!”

He looks so much like his brunette mother when he does that.

He’s been urging you to tell her for weeks now, the little prying shit, but you admit that it’s nice to have someone to talk about it with. Even if that someone is your own shared son.

You smile wanly at him, nervous and excited all at once. You’re going to do this. He’s told you time and again that he’s never seen his mom this happy, that she looks at you just like you look at her. That it makes so much sense: the Savior and the Evil Queen are near-perfect symmetry (yeah, he says ‘symmetry’ and you’re reminded again of how much of Regina is in the kid).

You drain your wine glass, set it down purposefully on the island bar, and give Henry a pointed look in return—one that simply says: “Leave.” He complies quickly, and you sidle up to the beautiful mayor as she sways, oblivious, by the stove.

When you kiss her, she says, “Finally,” and her fingers smell like hot chilies and onions in your hair. Her smile tastes like forever and your heart feels like white rice: fluffy and squishy and swollen with happiness. Her arms wrap around you like a harbor and her lips are so soft against the shell of your ear as she murmurs, “Now get your ass out of my kitchen.”

You feel like your face can’t possibly express all the happiness you’re feeling but it’s trying its damndest as you kiss her quickly on the lips again before sticking your finger in the slowly bubbling curry and leaping away gleefully.

Yeah, this feels like home.


End file.
